


The Case of Purrlock

by Foxmittens



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Catlock, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Pet antics, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Purrlock, cat!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxmittens/pseuds/Foxmittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had decided that even though he still didn't understand how or why, the fact remained he was a cat. In order not to be a cat he needed to investigate how he became one. He needed john's help but John was being his usual unobservant self and hadn't noticed Sherlock was, well Sherlock. Worse than that, he kept trying to stroke him.<br/>Meanwhile, John, dealing with the grief of loosing Sherlock, seeks comfort in the odd fluffy black cat that has made itself at home in his flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Purrlock comes to stay

**Author's Note:**

> This is Unbetaed and unBritpicked. Sorry for that. comments welcome. This is my first try at Sherlock fanfiction.

_The woman, not THE woman, but a woman glared at Sherlock._

_"I will give you exactly what you wish" She said. There was a roar in his ears and everything faded into dreams. Dreams of cases, experiments, 221 Baker Street, and John Watson_

 

***

Sherlock stretched out his limbs as he woke. He didn't remember going to sleep. That was unusual. That woman, had she drugged him? How? she didn't seem clever enough to trick him into taking anything. Maybe it was gas, like with the Baskerville case.

Sherlock uncurled his body, and took in his surroundings. They were uncannily familiar. If he didn't know any better he would say he was just outside 221 Baker Street. Except this 221 Baker Street was somehow bigger. He tried to stand up. His limbs felt weird, His legs felt short.

He looked at his arms.

They weren't arms.

They were black, and furry.  He had furry, black, paw shaped hands. His hands were paws. He twisted. Taking in the rest of him. More black fur. A tail. The size of things made sense. The door of 221 Baker Street wasn't huge. He was the size of a domestic cat and the shape of one. This didn't make sense. His senses were failing him. The only logical conclusion he could draw was that he was still dreaming, and if that was the truth he might as well make the most of it. He badly wanted to see this flat and John, surely he could enjoy seeing it now even though it was just a dream.

He was just thinking about which way would be best to sneak into the flat when He saw John.  _John_. His cat body purred. He forgot his cat-shape and raced to meet him. Leaping onto him.

John yelled and tried to pull him off.

"What the fuck?"

Sherlock felt his whole body rumbling with pleasure. It seemed that the purring was an automatic thing. He felt John relax against him and hold him more gently.

"Where did you come from?" He felt John stroke him absentmindedly, as he walked to the door of their flat.

Indignantly he said _Stop that! I'm not some cat to be coddled, John_ but what came out was a deep and indignant meow.

_Oh no_

John put him down on the door step and unlocked the door.

"You better be getting home."

The moment John had opened the door, Sherlock raced inside. He could hear John yelling and thundering after him. He raced past a startled Mrs. Hudson and up the stairs. He pushed open the unlocked door and leapt onto his couch. Joy filled his heart as he rolled around on it. It was so much bigger. John was stumbling in and panting. He stood there, breathing heavily and staring at Sherlock. He had his familiar, _I can't believe this,_ expression on. Sherlock melted into bliss, he was home, he purred furiously, rubbing his body against his couch. He had missed this.

It took him a few seconds to take in his surroundings. Once he did, the joy vanished. There was something about his flat. It wasn't how he remembered it. He glared at the tidiness and the absence of his experiments. Why would his subconscious remember the flat like this? This was meant to be his dream. He could feel his tail start to twitch. Ah, the realization hit him. He could feel touch. He nipped his paw. So, not a dream then.

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's waist and tried to lift him, obviously to take him outside. That would not do. Sherlock dug his claws into the couch. John tugged a bit, but it was plain he didn't want to hurt him.

"You're a stubborn puss I'll give you that. Fine, It's nice to have a visitor." He gave a wiry smile, and slumped into his own chair.

Sherlock, satisfied, began to scan the flat, taking in what was different. Taking in what had changed since he had faked his own death. His belongs weren't scattered around. It was orderly. He scanned John. John was wrong too. Still grieving, it seemed, there were more lines around his eyes. He had gained weight.  He was working, but only part time.

John was looking back at him, looking thoughtful.

"You know you kind of remind me of a friend I had. He was a willful bastard too. Used to sit just where you're sitting. Actually, If he ever been a cat, I think he would have looked like you. Fluffy black uppity bastard." A shadow flicked over Johns face and his voice tremored a little, but then he clenched his jaw and turned away, muttering to himself about talking to himself too much. Ironic.

Sherlock glared at him in annoyance. John was exhibiting another fine example of seeing but not noticing. 

******

"Did you get a cat then?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"He just invited himself in. I'm hoping he will go home eventually. Until then I don't think he could do more damage then Sherlock ever did"

The cat's ears pricked.

"He is a very pretty cat. Are you sure you don't want to keep him? You've been lonely since Sherlock... you know. Might do you some good to have something to look after."

John looked at the cat. He was watching him with sharp blue eyes, like he was waiting to hear his answer. He thought it must be his grief, but the cat really did remind him of his dead friend. If he had been a spiritual man he would have thought it might be Sherlock's reincarnation. After a moment's consideration he thought; _What the hell!_

"Okay, He can stay, but I will still look for who he belongs to. Someone might be really worried."

Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"What are you going to call him?"

"Purrlock."

Mrs. Hudson made a pitying face but didn't say anything. She patted him on the shoulder and left him to get acquainted with his new flatmate.

Neither noticed the cat brisling at the sound of his new name, or his soft indignant growl.

 ******

Sherlock had decided that even though he still didn't understand how or why, the fact remained he was a cat. In order not to be a cat he needed to investigate how he became one. He needed john's help but John was being his usual unobservant self and hadn't noticed Sherlock was, well Sherlock. Worse than that, he kept trying to stroke him.

The last thing he remembered was the woman, so logically she was some how involved. Her ominous words "I will give you exactly what you wish" seemed to fit with this theory, though Sherlock doubted he ever would have wished be an animal of any kind. He tried to think more about what lead to those words. He was investigating one of Moriarty's men. The woman was uninvolved in the investigation besides from the fact he had broken into her house to get a better view into one of her neighbor's window. The woman had said something about how he should not be there, indignant at his intrusion. He had snapped back, a deduction about her sparse wealth but need to appear more affluent than she was. He thought at the time how much he missed London, and having John with him. John would know how to calm these idiot women. He had thought about how he could get back to John once Moriaty's web was gone. Until then he had to stay hidden.

Had his wish been to be in hiding? Why a cat? He was missing something.  He rolled, bathing his side in the sun. What he needed was a plan, a line of inquiry. Logically he should travel to see that woman, but she was in another country and travelling as a cat would make it hard. The other line of inquiry was figuring out what she had meant by his wish. This was more easily done, where he was. It seemed to be connected to John and the flat. He could also use his cat form to spy on Moriarty's web. No one would notice a black cat slinking around in alleys. This could be quite useful.

Then there was Mycroft. Who should know he had gone missing. As much as he hated to think about his brother, it was probably wise to alert him to the fact that Sherlock was alive before he started to meddle where he wasn't wanted.

Focused on his new challenge Sherlock left his sunny patch of carpet and jumped onto the table.  John had left his laptop there. Sherlock pawed at it until it opened, and managed to turn it on, missing his long human digits.

He spent a few minutes experimenting on ways to type and operate the mouse with his paws and mouth. It was hard typing was cumbersome, and navigating the computer required a frustrating amount of coordination and effort.  It took even longer to access his secure server and email. By this time he was growing frustrated and bored.  He pawed out an email for Mycroft; 

"Alive. Investigate woman seen with last. Send results. Don't look for me. "

 He then checked his inbox; a few messages from Mycroft demanding contact and some information from one of Mycroft’s spooks.

He logged out and closed the laptop walking around behind it and leaning his front paws on it. He then went back to his sunspot and let his mind click away. He knew Mycroft would figure out where the email was sent from and come to look for him. John would be out for another few hours, so there was ample time to sunbathe.

  


	2. In which John buys Kitty Litter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes to visit and John buys Purrlock some supplies.

It took sooner than Sherlock had anticipated for his brother's footsteps to be heard coming up the steps. Sherlock pulled himself up from his sunny spot on the carpet (a new found pleasure that seemed to have come with the cat body), and leaped onto the back of his chair. He perched there, stretching himself out to his full height and watched the door.

 Two others followed Mycroft; his assistant who John had taken up called Anthea, and one other by the sound of his footfalls Sherlock deduced he was the muscle incase something went wrong. Mycroft was being cautious, not very cautious. If he had been then the muscle would be leading the way, but obviously uncertain enough to bring some form of back up. Interesting.

 Mycroft came into view and started at the sight of Sherlock. It was only a small start, no one but a Holmes would notice it, but it made Sherlock very pleased. He watched as his brother glanced around the room. Mycroft pointed to the laptop and Anthea immediately went to examine it. She was efficient. Sherlock was relieved. Anthea was far less likely to find any significance of cat hair on the keyboard when the cat was in the room staring at her. As much as he hated his current form he did not need Mycroft's help. Therefore he wanted to avoid Mycroft knowing about it at all costs. A humiliating story like this would circle family encounters until far beyond his death.

 "I can't find anything of significance" Anthea sighed. Mycroft nodded. "We will keep this place under tighter surveillance. It may be the location was faked as some form of infantile sentimentality, but his silence and disappearance worries me." Mycroft turned and looked straight at Sherlock. They stared at each other.

"This animal, how long has Watson had it?" Sherlock pulse quickened. Had his brother deduced? Surely not, like Sherlock, Mycroft should have a blind spot for this. Mycroft scanned around the room with his eyes, quickly. "It must not be very long. The flat is hardly fitted out for it."

Anthea considered Sherlock for a moment. The surveillance team probably hadn't told her anything about him. Getting a cat was hardly considered news worthy. "I will find out." Her tone suggested she thought it would be wasted time, but she trusted Mycroft’s judgment.

"You both should leave, our dear doctor will be home soon. It's best if we don't make him feel crowded."

"Do you want us to check the other rooms?"

"No need, there is nothing here."

Mycroft, now alone, regarded Sherlock with a hint of distain. He crinkled his nose and stepped forward to touch him. What was it about being a cat that made everyone want to _pet_ him? Sherlock flinched back loosing his balance and falling backwards off the couch. He landed with an indignant hiss and ran underneath the bookshelf. Peering out to see Mycroft sit down in _his_ seat. Sherlock yowled a low rumbling yowl, which was ignored.

There was silence in the flat that stretched on far to long. Mycroft was reading something on the table. Sherlock heard John coming up the stairs, burdened with shopping bags that rustled as he walked. Really, John had an unhealthy obsession with Tesco.

 John stopped when he saw Mycroft. The lines on his face deepened, displaying his annoyance and something darker. He dropped his shopping and stepped forward, shoulders tensed.

"Good afternoon, Mycroft" his tone growled the unsaid _What are you doing here?_

"Hello John. Just a quick visit to see how you were." Mycroft drawled examining a mark on the coffee table.

"You know most people tend to call before they visit and wait to be let in."

Mycroft shot him a smile. John scowled, looking around.

"Was there a cat around here?" He said. "Only there was when I left this morning."

"I seem to have spooked it." Mycroft’s observation was seeped with disinterest.  "Aren't you going to offer me tea?"

"Guests that invite themselves in while I'm out can make their own damn tea. Where did it go Mycroft?"

Mycroft pointed to Sherlock's bookcase. John dropped down and peered underneath, meeting Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock felt his chest begin to rumble with a purr as John smiled at him. John's hand lifted to stroke Sherlock but he hesitated, remembering Sherlock's skittish nature. He climbed back to his feet and went to sit opposite Mycroft.

"When did you get a cat?" Mycroft asked, irritated at being ignored. Sherlock felt smug enough to creep out from his hiding place and jump onto the table next to John's laptop.

"Recently. Look. If you came to ask me about my pet, then you must have a lot more free time these days."

"I came because there is something brewing, John. You might be in danger. I came to warn you to keep an eye out and stay out of trouble."

John snorted. "With Sherlock gone the only exciting thing that happens to me is _That_." he pointed at Sherlock. "Why would anything happen now that would include me."

"Even though Sherlock is gone, his presence here is not forgotten. That makes you a target."

Mycroft got up and swaggered to the door swinging his umbrella.

"Enjoy your cat, what's its name? just out of curiosity. People are so sentimental about these things."

"Purrlock" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"I am sure my brother would be pleased he was so loved" He smirked and closed the door behind him.

 _I am not "pleased"_ meowed Sherlock, but his meow turned into a half-hearted grumble as he thought about it meaning John cared for him. Something warm curled inside of him and he began to purr. John was watching him in amusement.

"You are an odd little thing, Purrlock" He looked back at his shopping. "Since you might be staying here long, I bought you some things."

Sherlock interest in the bags grew. He stretched out his neck to examine them as John began to pull out items.

"I know you might not be staying long, but I got you some toys so you don't get bored." he jingled some weird bell with feathers attached to it. Sherlock looked at it perplexed and mildly offended John thought that would entertain him for even a second. "I got you some food too. The expensive stuff so you better not turn your nose up at it. Its meant to have all the nutrients cats need." John pulled out a silver 1kg bag of dried cat food and showed it to Sherlock proudly.

 _Not even if I was starving_ Sherlock glared at him, unimpressed. John didn't notice.

"And finally, I got you a Litter box so no accidents in the flat. If I find a mess or spraying somewhere I'll take you straight to the vet and get you fixed." John paused. "I should really get you fixed anyway, Its the responsible thing to do, but I don't know if you belong to anyone and that's the kind of thing people get upset about if you do it without their permission."

 _Fixed John? What do you mean by fixed?_ Sherlock checked his memory; Cat care, unfortunately, was not something he ever bothered to learn much about.

He stared as John filled the litter box with clay like substance. He pawed it, examining its properties. He looked at John, and then looked at the litter packaging. _No_. He stared back at John in disbelief. If John thought for a moment he was going to defecate in a sandpit in their living room, he had lost his mind. 

John put down two bowls, water in one and the dried cat food in the other. Sherlock studied his flatmate. He seemed excited about the prospect of a pet, an obvious deduction considering all the trappings he had bought, and the smile on his face. Maybe when Sherlock changed back he should get John some sort of animal. However, John might pay more attention his pet than Sherlock. Unacceptable.  He looked for other data. John's day had been moderately busy. One of his patients had irritated him in the morning, causing him to treat himself for lunch. A lunch he had then spilled on his collar.

He took a hesitant drink from his water bowl. It was ridiculous but he was thirsty. John slowly reached over and held out his hand. Sherlock stared at it. _What now, John_. He sniffed it with token interest, smelling the antiseptic from the clinic, tea and biscuits and the metallic scent of coins. John took this as encouragement and slowly touched Sherlock's back. Sherlock stiffened. John made soft soothing noises, slowly stroking him

 _Don’t patronise me!_ Sherlock glared at him, but only for a second, the soft touch was indeed soothing and he felt himself lean into it without really meaning to. The automatic rumble of his purr vibrated through him. It shocked him. With a start he batted John's hand away. _Don't_. But he quickly regretted it. The stroking had felt nice. It must be this damn cat's body It was making him not himself. Sherlock would never be stroked like a common lap cat. Sherlock was not a slave to his body. He didn't need touch. He didn't need anyone.

"One day." John said with a chuckle. "I can see you secretly like it."

John then sat down to watch his favorite television show, leaving Sherlock to examine the chemical makeup of his kitty litter.


	3. In Which Purrlock has a Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From John's point of view as he contemplates friends past and present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind comments. They almost made me cry they were so sweet. I definitely felt encouraged to get this next chapter out ASAP.
> 
> This chapter's tone might be a little different from the other two. Part of it is from John's POV, and his experience of the story is a little different from Sherlock's.

It had been months since Sherlock had fallen. It was an event that John couldn't quite believe. Sherlock had been so amazing, so much larger than life, and so unreal that the idea that he was even _capable_ of dying seemed beyond possibility. He never believed that Sherlock had lied, but he found it hard to believe he was gone.

For the first few days this disbelief was compounded with shock. Shock carried him through the police interviews until he was home, in their flat, alone. It was only after the flat had stayed silent long enough for shock to start to ebb away, that Sherlock's absence started to sink in. _Sherlock was gone._ As he stared across at his friend's couch the true depth of his pain hit him, clawing at his throat and aching in his chest. Privately he let his grief take him. He howled with it, bent over and clutching at his chair for support.

The next day he bought milk. He said hello to Mrs. Hudson. He did not cry or crumble. He soldiered on and the grief curled up inside him. It throbbed in his chest reminding him of its presence every day. Whispering " _why_ " and " _what if I had done something more_." But it was sealed in, pushed down.

Occasionally his grief burst out of its cage in moments like when he caught himself making two cups of tea rather than one. On these occasions he would stand still, staring at the twin cups, unable to breathe. The sense of loss, pain and regret flooding over him. He would tremble under it for a moment then pull himself up and carry on, because that is what John Watson did. He dealt with things. he took his emotions and he shoved them down deep so far he could hardly recognize them and no one else could see them. John Watson carried on. Life carried on.

People worried about John a little. He seemed to be coping, but he wasn't moving on. He was still in the same flat, surrounded by the ghost of Sherlock.

Then came Purrlock, the one oddity in John Watson's now grey life. Purrlock had waltzed in and claimed his spot. John wasn't a cat person. He had always wanted a dog, but Purrlock's arrival had seemed too much like fate to ignore. He knew, on some level, he was projecting Sherlock onto Purrlock, but Purrlock felt like his friend. Maybe it was because Sherlock had always reminded him of a cat. Maybe it was simply because he missed his friend and here was a convenient substitute.

To be fair, Purrlock did look a bit like the late consulting detective, thin and with long black fur and startling blue eyes. He wasn't a particularly friendly cat either, preferring to glare at visitors from high places rather than allow himself to be touched. That worried John, he wondered what kind of life Purrlock had had before he came to make him half wild. He seemed to want affection but be terrified of it at the same time. Figuring out Purrlock's insecurities and overcoming them was sort of his own little case. Something to keep him busy so he didn't think of his friend and ex-flatmate. If he were to blog about it he would call it _The Case of Purrlock._

He was smiling to himself at this thought when he heard a distressed yowl and a splash coming from the bathroom. He ran to see Purrlock clawing his way out of the toilet bowl. The cat looked very unhappy and very drenched, his usually fluffy fur stuck flat against his thin frame. John couldn't help it. He exploded with laughter. He laughed until his throat and sides hurt. He continued to laugh until all that was coming out was a wheeze. By this time, Purrlock, ears back, had managed to pull himself and was sitting on the mat looking most un-amused.

Sherlock watched him, hissing _Childish, John_ under his breath. He was mortified. He had been trying to use the toilet. It had gone well until he had lost his balance and his much smaller form had fallen in. This instance was just another to add to the ever growing list as to reasons why he needed to find away to turn back without anyone knowing about it.

When John managed to catch his breath he surveyed his sopping friend.

"I think we need to get you cleaned up. How about a nice warm bath?" He closed the door so Purrlock couldn't run away and started to run the bath. Purrlock hadn't moved but was just glaring at him.

John filled the tub just enough so that Purrlock could stand in it with his shoulders and head above the water, and made sure the water wasn't too hot. He then twisted around and grabbed his furry friend around the waist. Purrlock hissed at the sudden contact and struggled as John placed him into the bath. He gave an indignant yowl as John squeezed some of his shampoo and rubbed it in to his fur. John was actually surprised Purrlock had not tried to scratch him and was just expressing his disapproval vocally.

While John was marvelling at Purrlock's (relatively) good behaviour, Sherlock was marveling at how strong but gentle John's hands were, massaging shampoo along his body. He shouldn't be enjoying it. It was humiliating and crossing so many lines of intimacy that should not be crossed, but he _was_ enjoying it, a lot.  Sherlock was sure that if he wasn't feeling so embarrassed that blasted purr would surface, giving his enjoyment away. John finished lathering his body and rubbed his neck and behind his head, avoiding his face and ears. He gently lifted each of Sherlock's legs and rubbed them with shampoo, before letting them go. His other hand firmly gripped Sherlock's back the whole time, waiting to stop Sherlock if he decided to try and jump out of the bath. 

"You are being awfully good" John commented, his voice as soothing and gentle as his hands.

Sherlock listened to the trickle of water as John, using his cupped hand, rinsed the shampoo off.

John then let go, and grabbed a towel. Sherlock, having enough of being in the bath tub tried to jump out. His sudden movement started John who grabbed for him and pulled him on to the towel.

_Enough John, I've had enough!_

John didn't listen, or more accurately John couldn't understand him. Sherlock was wrapped in the towel and rubbed with it, roughly. He gave a disgruntled growl, but stayed still. He would never admit it to anyone but all this care and attention was rather nice.

When John let go, Sherlock jumped away and shook himself. He could feel his fur sticking up and from the look on John's face he deduced it must be amusingly fluffed. He gave John a scathing look before running out of the bathroom and go sit on his settee.

John watched him go. He was pretty sure cats hated water, and had been expecting a battle. What he had got were token noises of unrest but otherwise resigned obediance. Purrlock was indeed an unusual animal. John smiled. At least unusual wasn't boring. Unusual made him feel alive.  For a second he even forgot the gnawing pain in his chest, the hole left by his best friend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quasi Illustrations on tumblr: http://eviko.tumblr.com/post/37295483419/these-are-quasi-illustrations-for-my-fic-the-case


	4. In Which Sherlock Is confronted by John's Feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. all the feedback is really appreciated. I am filing away all suggestions to use in future chapters. I am still looking for a Beta, since I know this story could really use it.

Sherlock was frustrated. He was still sure John was at the center of this _curse thing_ he was under. How he hated to refer to it like that, curses shouldn't exist. This situation, this, dare he think it, _magic_ , shredded the beautiful known world of science. None of it should exist. It ruined everything.

A few days had gone by, and when John left the house to go to the pub, Sherlock checked his email.

 

**12.03pm**

Contact us when convenient.

M.

 

 **03.30pm**  

I know you have a certain taste for drama, but this has to stop. I have to take your silence as alarming and if it is just you having a sulk because you miss your blogger, I want to remind you this will not help him. I have increased his surveillance. If he is in real danger I need to know.

M.

 

**9.00am**

The woman you were last seen with is being investigated. She has a reputation as that of a "witch doctor" according to local sources.

What have you got yourself mixed up in?

 

 _So the woman wasn't hiding her gifts. Obviously most people it would just see it as superstition, not truth. Less suspicious to claim what people don't believe anymore than to draw suspicion to yourself by being seen to be hiding something. Clever._  Sherlock was pacing across the tabletop. There was not enough data to draw anything useful, yet. Mycroft was holding back, an obvious way to make Sherlock contact him.

Sherlock pawed a reply at the keyboard.

 

Don't play games with me. Send what you know. All of it, even the superstitious drivel you don't think is worth my time. I know you have found something.

Don't read into my location, current necessity due to reasons you do not need to know. Occupants unaware.  Your presence there will only attract attention.

S

 

After leaving the laptop as he had found it. He Leapt onto the top bookshelf and scanned the living room. Even with the puzzle of his current form to keep him occupied, being cooped up in the two bedroom flat was boring. He couldn't even read or do experiments. He was passing his time learning the abilities and limits of his new, but hopefully temporary, body. It would be foolish to explore the more dangerous outside world without first knowing what he could and could not do.  He had found his body clumsy at first. falling off the chair in front of Mycroft and into the toilet in front of John had both been humiliating examples of how uncoordinated he was. They were not the only times, but he hated when he had an audience. Now he practiced leaping and balancing along the edges of furniture, squeezing through tight spaces and racing up and down the flat. His activity seemed to bother John so Sherlock kept more of the daredevil experiments until John was out either at work, the shops or the pub. Today he was going to see how much of the wall he could scale with his claws.

From his perch he located some possible areas he could practice climbing. It would be better to start with something easier and work his way up to more difficult surfaces. Using his claws to climb was something he understood in theory but would need to feel through in action. His eyes settled on the curtains. A good distance from the end of the bookcase; challenging but a distance he knew he could manage. Fabric would be easier on his claws than wallpaper or wood, easier to snag. Though the snagging could provide it's own challenges. 

He strode to the end of the bookcases, paying no attention to the objects he knocked with his tail. Some of them just shuddered before stilling where they started, and some crashed to the floor.  He crouched at the corner of the bookcase and then leapt pushing himself towards the curtains claws outstretched. There was a satisfying whump as he landed, clinging to the fabric and swinging with left over momentum. Easy.

Disconnecting his claws and climbing up or down was harder. As he tested different movements, figuring out what was the most efficient and fasts way to climb, he paid no attention the little rips his claws were causing. He managed to climb up onto the curtain railing and stride along it. Excellent.

Feeling confident he leapt onto the wall. His claws sunk into the wallpaper, but instead of holding him like they had with the curtains, he slid down a bit, tearing the wallpaper in his wake.  He made a few more attempts to climb, finding a way that suited and then jumped from the wall onto the mantelpiece, knocking Billy the skull over in the process. 

He heard the muffled click of keys coming from downstairs. John was home.  He raced across the floor and stood in front of the door. His whole body was humming with endorphins from his exercise, but the anticipated presence of John lifted his mood that much more.  John opened the door to the flat and stopped.

Sherlock looked up at him, examining his features, as John scanned the room. He watched as his eyes widened and his eyebrows pull in. He saw his chest begin to heave. John took in a huge shacking breath and looked down at him.

 "Did you... do... this?" John gestured to the room.

Sherlock glanced around. Ah. It was a little bit worse for wear than when he started his experiments.  He could see that John was not too happy with him by how his nostrils flared with each breath and how his lips had been pulled into a thin tight line.  He suddenly felt quite helpless in his small, voiceless form. Usually he would just make slight remark about how it had been necessary and ignore John's irritation, but now John was towering over him and Sherlock could say nothing.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a fleeting bit of information wiggled its way clear. People tended to tolerate a lot from their pets, because their pets were.... stupid?... _loveable?... cute?_

That's it! he just needed to use his new body to display these qualities and any mess he made will be tolerated. How do animals do "cute"? What would John find loveable  He remembered that there was a type of animal that displayed its stomach as a sign of submission. He had deleted what animal it was, but it was worth a try. He rolled onto his back and cocked his head hoping that the result would pull at John's metaphorical heartstrings.

John stared at the animal writhing awkwardly on the floor in front of him. Purrlock lay on his back, his legs straight up in the air and his head switching side-to-side looking up at him with wide eyes. He sighed, feeling his anger dissipate. There was obviously something _wrong_ with this cat. He wondered if it suffered some sort of mental illness. Sometimes he thought Purrlock was cleverer than he should be, but at times like this he wondered if he was... not quite right in the head. Still irritated, and the buzz from the pub wearing off, John stomped off to bed, leaving the, now dubbed; feline menace to twist around on the carpet without him.  He could deal with the mess when he woke up tomorrow, and its not like a cat could understand his scolding.

Sherlock got up from the floor feeling pleased with himself. It had worked, John had obviously become less cross with him and had been taken in by his furry cuteness. As he heard John shuffle around upstairs, ready for bed, Sherlock jumped up onto his seat and settled in for the night. He was tired from jumping the walls and could use a few hours sleep. 

* * *

Sherlock was woken by the sound of John's nightmare. There was not any screaming, just muffled whimpering, but Sherlock's sensitive cat ears picked up the noise like he was right next to him. He slunk up the stairs listening to John's voice become more and more distressed. His whimpers and mumbles slowly forming into coherent words.

 "no not Sherlock, no don't, Sherlock...."

Alarmed, Sherlock raced into his room and jumped onto his bed.  Sitting on the edge, afraid to get closer, incase John lashed out.

 _John_ he meowed. _John!_

John sat up quickly with a gasp. Sherlock frightened by the sudden movement jumped back nearly toppling off the bed as his spine arched instinctively.

John's breath was laboured. Sherlock edged a little closer but stopped when he realised John was doing something more alarming: He was crying. Not sobbing or anything like that but silently chocking as tears threatened the corners of his eyes. The marks of someone holding it in and refusing to let it out, even there in the dark privacy of his room. Sherlock could see he was trying to pull back his emotions and calm himself down. He was shivering with the effort. Sherlock took a step forward, He knew John still had nightmares about Afganistan occasionally, but he was unsure _this_ nightmare was about war. John had said Sherlock's name. It was possible Sherlock's fall had affected him more than Sherlock had anticipated. He had been watching John since the fall and while he knew John had grieved for him, he had thought, over all, John was fine. As he watched this man whom he had adored trying to pull himself together Sherlock began to realise his friend was hardly fine. He had just been hiding how not fine he was.

Sherlock knew he adored John. It was hard, when you jump of a building to save someone, to not understand that you are doing it because they are precious to you. For this reason it was no surprise to Sherlock that he cared for John. What was a surprise was the deep aching knot in his chest when he saw his friend in pain. He had only thought about how much he didn't want to loose John, he had never thought about how much he didn't want John to hurt. Right now he was _overwhelmed_ by how much he wanted John not to hurt. He wanted to take whatever emotional pain was causing John to bite back his tears and dissolve it in acid.

Sherlock did the only thing he could think of; he tentatively put a paw on John's arm, like he had seen people do when they were comforting someone. John turned and looked at him. he reached out and started to stroke Sherlock's head. Sherlock let him. He let himself be pulled closer. He let John bury his face in his fur, dampening it with tears. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do, and even though he didn't like this, John seemed to need it. So he stayed perfectly still as John hugged him and breathed into his coat with choking breaths that slowly became steadier. John lay back down, pulling Sherlock down with him. Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled with no resistance. The hug slowly became looser and he felt John's gentle fingers stroking him. His purr rumbled softly against John's chest, feeling John's breath slow as he feel asleep. Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning against his friend, as if to guard against the appearance of more nightmares. He fell asleep with curled in Johns arms.


	5. In Which John Gets Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a visitor and John meets an old friend.

John woke with a mouth full of fur. He groaned and gently repositioned Purrlock, who had draped himself over John's chest. Purrlock didn't wake completely while  he was being moved, but his tail gave a grumpy flick. John rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. He then lay his hand to rest on Purrlock's torso.  He let his fingers tangle in the long, soft fur and enjoyed the tactile pleasure it brought, before extracting himself from the bed. Purrlock's tail twitched angrily as he was moved. His eyes opened into slits, and as he glared at john in sleepy accusation.

He did not move as John got dressed. It was only when John was heading down to grab breakfast that Purrlock finally sauntered off the bed.

John groaned when he saw the state of the living room. He had blissfully forgotten about it until that moment. He looked down at his fluffy and totally unapologetic companion.

"You are _worse_ than my last flat mate, and that is saying something."

He could have sworn the look Purrlock gave him was skeptical. He tidied up as much of the living room as he could and grabbed something quickly to eat from the kitchen. He gave the curtains one last rueful look before he left for work. Purrlock watched him go from his perch on the stairs.

*****

Sherlock woke in the morning more motivated than ever to get his proper body back. John needed him back _. He_ needed to be back, and there was only so long someone could tolerate being expected to defecate in a box, given _dried meat biskets_  to eat and expected to be cuddled on a whim. 

When he was sure John had left, and wasn't coming back for a forgotten item, he went strait for the computer to check Mycroft's reply.

There was none.

Irritated, Sherlock savaged the cat toy John at left, plucking out the feathers with no mercy. His frustration had not ebbed by the time he heard the soft steps of expensive shoes coming up the stairs. Recognizing the footfalls, Sherlock pulled his ears back and slipped under the couch.

Mycroft wasted no time. As he entered the room, he went straight for John's computer. He examined it carefully, wrinkling his nose as he pulled one of Sherlock’s cat hairs from the keyboard. He scanned the room, noticing Sherlock’s tail twitching from underneath the settee. 

He knelt and clicked his tongue at Sherlock, holding out his hand. Sherlock backed away, hissing, and pressing himself against the wall. Mycroft smiled sadly and stood up. as he straightened his suit he gave one last glance around the room.

"In case, anyone is listening. We have her in our custody. She should be in London in the next few days."

The door clicked close and Sherlock bristled in the silence.  If they were bringing the witch to London, he would need to figure out a way to get to her. He had not left the flat a at all, and was unsure how well he could navigate the busy city streets in his cat body.

***

John was having a break between patients, the chaos of the living room still on his mind. He was obviously out of his depth with Purrlock. He pulled out his phone and texted the first person who came to mind. He hadn't spoken to her in months.

 **Hi Molly. I need some advice on cat care. -John**

It took half an hour to get a reply.

**_John Watson? How are you? You got a cat?! - Molly_ **

**I'm alright. Yeah, a stray adopted me, but he has some behavioral issues, I am worried Mrs Hudson will kick us both out if I don't get him to stop. I have never owned a cat before. More of a dog person. Are you free this evening for a drink? -John**

**_Sure. It will be good to see you_** **-Molly.**

****

Later that evening, John smiled and waved as he spotted Molly beckoning him across the crowed pub. She gazed at him wearily as he sat down. He pulled a tight smile and didn't comment.

"So" she said finally, her voice wobbled a little. She was trying to disguise how uncomfortable she was, but it wasn't working. "How have you been... since..." Her question trailed off and she looked down at her lap, her face bright red.

John shuffled and cleared his throat. "Good...good... I mean. Better, all things considered. Do you want a drink? Beer okay?"

Molly nodded shyly and stared with determined focus at the hem of her shirt. When John returned she was looking at him again, with a thin smile.

"So... A cat?" The hesitance was obvious in her voice, he watched her study him for a moment. He gave her his best smile and nodded.

"Yeah, called him Purrlock." He watched her flinch.

"Umm... like..." she began to ask but he cut her off.

"Yeah, Like..." He waved his hand, not saying the name. "It's a play on names. Its a bit of a joke, really, because the bastard... well he is a lot like...him." he could hear himself falter at the end and hoped he hadn't been too obvious. Molly gave him a sympathetic smile. Her eyes looked haunted, John supposed she felt the grief as keenly as he did. She _did_ fancy him. He pulled his smile tighter, hoping it reached his eyes and turned the subject back to lighter things.

"I know it's been a while since we, um, talked, but I could really use some advice with my cat."

"Are you sure you need me? Surely you've looked online... I mean I am hardly a vet." she fiddled with her phone as she talked, but John could see she felt flattered at being asked.

"I did, but it is hard to know what is good advice and what isn't on those sites, and Purrlock... he isn't your average cat. He is a bit mental."

"Mental?" Her head shot up and cocked to one side, her tone disbelieving.

"Mental" He confirmed, leaning conspiringly. "I think, he thinks he is _human_.  I know everyone says that about their pets, but I am serious." Molly giggled. "No really, he doesn't use a litter box, he uses _the toilet-"_

 _"_ Some cats are taught to do that." Molly interjected by John waved his hand to say he wasn't finished.

"He doesn't want to eat cat food either. He wants people food. He totally ignores what I put down for him and keeps trying to steal what is on my plate. See this scratch" John pulls back his sleeve. " He _swatted_ me when I tried to get my own dinner back from him. Sometimes I feel like he is trying to tell me off when he is moewing."

Molly furrowed her brow. "He sounds spoilt."

"That's the thing! When he came in, I thought he was a stray. He was scared of being touched at first, like some flinching street urchin, and now he thinks he is the Emperor of Baker Street!"

"Scared of being touched?"

"Yeah he would flinch away and try to escape. He still does, but he is starting to trust me a bit more. I was thinking maybe he was abused by his past owners... but who would spoil a cat rotten one minute and abuse them the next? It's not just the being spoilt and skittish that's the problem, he is wrecking the flat. Yesterday I came home and he had shredded the wallpaper! He is as bad as Sherl-" He stopped. There was a long silence between them. "He's almost as bad as _him_." He whispered eventually. Last night still raw in his mind. He could feel his cheeks go hot.

Molly just nodded.

"You could try disciplining bad behaviour with a water bottle. but if he is already skittish it might undo the trust you have built with him and it only works if it is immediately after the bad behaviour. If he is tearing up the place when you are out, maybe its because he is bored?"

John took a sip of his beer. "Probably" he agreed. "I bought him toys but he doesn't play with them."

"Maybe let him out?"

"On Baker Street? It's a bit busy isn't it?" Johns head was suddenly filled with images of Purrlock, being run over, or chased by vicious dogs. He pulled a face. Molly smiled warmly.

"I am sure we'll figure something out."

They both drank from their glasses in companionable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late and so short, I rewrote this chapter 5 times. :/, there is a lot of stuff going on and I wanted to get the pacing right. Thank you for all the comments they are lovely.


	6. In Which Sherlock goes for a Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Confronts the witch about his furry problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, wow this has been sitting half done on my Desktop for months. Sorry about the mistakes, I sort of rushed it through so at least we can continue the story. It is close to wrapping up.

There was one message waiting for Sherlock, when he next opened his email.

"We have been in contact with the woman in question. She has agreed to come to London. Since you are here you should come talk to her yourself. But be careful. People have a habit of disappearing around this woman. We have taken her to where I first met your companion. "

It confirmed the information Mycroft had implied before. Obviously Mycroft believed he was in baker street or had surveillance of it. He would have to avoid being caught by Mycrofts own surveilence, incase Mycroft recognised him and connected the dots. But this was, for the most part, a welcome development. Mycroft was obviously fishing for information by asserting he knew where Sherlock was. He knew Sherlock would not be able to resist correcting him if he was wrong. Sherlock was tempted to lie, but he didn't want to jeopardise the chance of seeing the witch again.In the end, he didn't bother replying at all; instead he went to find a window he could slip out of.

Navigating the streets as a cat had its challenges. Crossing roads was a big one, as well as avoiding people’s feet. The perspective was different and he had difficulty being able to see where he was going. It was just as well he new London so well, that even with the new angles and size he was finding his way. Even so, It took a frustratingly long time, and would have taken longer if he hadn't managed to slip onto the tube and hide under the seats for some of the way. Most people seemed to ignore him, except for children, who pointed at him and tried to grab his tail with sticky fingers. Eventually he arrived at the old warehouse, John had been taken on the day they met. He slunk around the edges, dodging the views of cameras. Until he was just close enough to the figure in the centre of the room to recognise her as the witch. She sat, lounging on an out door chair as if it was her living room, one arm resting on a matching table in front of her. 

 

“Finally.  I was getting bored.”

_Sorry, Traffic was terrible._

“I suppose you’re current form makes travelling a bit difficult.”

_It does add a bit of challenge, yes._

The woman chuckled. Sherlock hesitated. Had she really understood him? When no one else did? As if sensing his questions she answered.

“I made you how you are, of course I can understand.”

_If you can understand me, tell me why you did this. Whatever little I did you, I didn’t deserve this kind of revenge._

_“_ That is the problem with people nowadays, you always think everything is about revenge and anger. This is no curse, Sherlock, I gave you a gift. I gave you exactly what you needed, what you dared not wish for.”

If Sherlock could have laughed he would have.

_Well I would like to return it. This is the worst gift I have ever been given._

“I’m sorry. I don’t have that power.” She gave him a sad smile, and rose from her chair. “The spell will come undone on it’s own once the gift is fully given. You will thank me in the end.”

He blinked and opened his mouth to meow a reply, but she was gone.

And he realized he was standing just in the line of sight of one of Mycroft’s cameras. _Fuck_. He scrambled to escape but for he could a familiar pair of shoes blocked the door.

_Hello Mycroft._

“I am assuming, dear brother, that in time you will be able to give me a full explanation of this. “ _Not now Mycroft_

“Don’t spit, I don’t care if you are a cat it is unbecoming.”

 _Oh I bet you are enjoying this._ Mycroft scooped Sherlock up, a smug grin on his face that Sherlock was tempted to scratch off.

“I suppose you are wondering when I knew? Actually it was your email that tipped my off, and unlike you I have been aware of magic for quite some time”

_I don’t care, put me down._

“Stop struggling brother. I am taking you home. It seems, like the witch said, we have to let it run it’s course.”

_Why did you let her go! Are you incompetent? She could have had answers! I wasn’t finished talking to her yet._

“Witches like that are hard to pin down, the only reason we had her in custody so long is because she wanted to see you. Now can you please stop clawing at my suit it’s already ruined” Just to spite him Sherlock dug his claws in even more and felt satisfied with every fabric tear he created.

Mycroft grabbed him by the scruff, and gently popped him in the car seat next to him. Yowling in annoyance, Sherlock looked out the window and examined their route to Baker Street. Mycroft didn’t talk; he just sat, fiddling with his smart phone.

“I won’t tell John.” He said as they drew up to the curb of 221B, “That is your business. But there is a reason you are here and nowhere else.  I am sure you will figure it out soon, it’s what you do isn’t it. Solve puzzles.”

Sherlock gave a resigned hiss as Mycroft picked him up and carried him to the front door. It took one knock, before Mrs Hudson opened it. “Have you found him ye- Oh Mycroft! Oh thank heavens you found John’s little purrlock. He was ever so worried. I swear He was tearing up the whole building the moment he got home and found him gone. Come in and have some tea while you are here.” She bustled them into her kitchen and put the kettle on. “Thank you for finding him, I don’t think John deals with loss well, ever since… well I suppose it’s been difficult for us all, you most of all.” She gave him a sympathetic pat.

“Yes, quite” Mycroft took the tea with a grateful smile, letting Sherlock  finally jump off his la and prowl around the room.

“I better call John on his mobile then shouldn’t I” Mrs Hudson fumbled with the phone, and carefully pressed out John’s number.  Sherlock  could feel Mycroft’s eyes on him, as he stalked the room. _I know._ He wanted to snap at his brother. _Don’t you dare imply this is what happens when you get involved. People generally do not go interspecies when they develop attachments, unless…_

Sherlock flicked around. _Of course., It’s to do with him.. I knew that already but its not about him, its about me and him about my connection to him. So maybe, maybe, if John knows it’s me then there will be no need for this curse._

The door slammed and John rushed in.

“Where. Is. He.” He panted, holding the doorframe for support.

Mrs Hudson scooped Sherlock up and pushed him into Johns chest. John wrapped his arms around him and continued to breath heavily into his neck as he caught his breathe.

“Mycroft found him” Mrs Hudson supplied, waving a hand at Mycroft, who was already retreating out the door.

“It was no trouble really.” Mycroft said, preempting a “thanks” from John. “I must be going, have a good evening.” He disappeared quickly, leaving John and Mrs hudson to give eachother puzzled glances,

And for the first time in his life Sherlock lamented Mycroft for keeping boundaries. It would be so much easier of Mycroft was his usual interfering self and just _told_ John what was going on. How was he going to tell John on his own? He flopped against John and began to put together some plans.

 

The first was simple, when John finally put him down in the safety of their flat, Sherlock ran to his old room and started to paw at the door.

“No you can’t go in there.” Sherlock yowled in response and jumped, pulling on the doorhandle.

“Look I am already angry at you about running away can you just NOT try to annoy me for one second- PURRLOCK“ The door creeked open and Sherlock slipped inside.  John stood paused at the door uncertain before rushing in. Once in the room, he looked around frantically. It was as he had left it, hardly touched. Besides from a layer of dust and a few spiderwebs it felt just the same as before- well you know. It took a moment for Purrlock to reappear, popping his head out from the cupboard, pulling Sherlock’s hat with him.

“What are you doing?”

Purrlock then tried to crawl under the hat, so his head was poking out of it. He looked up and John expectantly, John looked down at him baffled.

Then John began to laugh. It was small at first a choked chuckle but it grew more and more the longer he held Purrlocks gaze.

“I am going mad.” He said to himself, rubbing his face with his hands. Purrlock meow and tried to sit up with the hat still on his head.

“Now you are just being ridiculous.” John said fondly. He pulled the hat of and placed it carefully on the bed. "Come on, this room isn’t for you".

 _But it is._ Sherlock meowed forlornly as he followed John into the living room. Guilt clawing at his insides the longer he stayed in the room, John has turned into his shrine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. In Which 221B is Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Thought Sherlock, and he paced the mantle piece, tail twitching in aggravated determination. I can do this. John will recognise me, I am sure. Maybe if I start following my old routines John will recognise them and deduce that I am Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about how slow and small this update is, I have been super busy. It does have an end and I am going to try and get it finished!

Alright. Thought Sherlock, and he paced the mantle piece, tail twitching in aggravated determination. I can do this. John will recognise me, I am sure. Maybe if I start following my old routines John will recognise them and deduce that I am Sherlock.

“PURRLOCK! OFF” 

Sherlock looked up to see John beginning to get up from his chair. He glanced at the ground and noticed Billy the skull lying there. He must have knocked it off while pacing. John picked up the skull and placed it in front of Sherlock.  
“No. bad cat. Keep off there.” He lifted Sherlock off the mantle piece and placed him on the floor before returning to his book.  
Sherlock paced the room. This time of day what would he be doing? Experiments most likely. Looking around he spotted a pad of post-it notes on the bench by the phone. He leapt the bench to retrieve them. Figuring it would be easier to deal with them post-it notes on the floor, he pushed them off the bench and grabbed a pen in his mouth, holding it gently between his teeth. He was just about to jump down when he heard John’s foot falls behind him.   
“Is this a new type of game? Knocking things on the floor?” John said, picking up the post-it note pad and putting it back in its place. Sherlock’s tail twitched in frustration. He could see John’s arm’s tensing, readying for the motion of picking Sherlock off the bench. Feeling the urgency of the situation, Sherlock clumsily grappled with the pen so it was between his paws, and attempted to write a very wobbly “no” on the pad. It was harder than he envisioned it to be. Writing was something people took for granted when they had opposable thumbs, without them he had to use both his paws to steady the pen, and his mouth to manoeuvre it on the paper. The end result was more of a scribble than anything that looked like letters.  
While ineffective in producing legible writing, Sherlock’s attempts at feline penmanship caused John to halt his movement.   
“what-“ John began, before cutting himself off. His shoulders visibly slumped as he let out a huge sigh. “Never mind. Its just paper.” As he walked back to his chair, Sherlock was sure he heard him mutter “crazy” under his breath.

Having decided that the pen was not the way to go, Sherlock scanned the kitchen for other options. Writing tools, in any form were out. They were too problematic to hold. Therefore some form of substance he could use to “finger paint” with his paws would have to suffice if he was to make notes of his experiments. He wandered along the kitchen top examining objects. Jam? No, too sticky. Tea? No, he would be constantly tearing open bags. Sugar? Maybe. Oh hang on. A slightly open cupboard door caught his attention. Inside, just visible, was a bag with a bright label declaring it flour. His eyes grew wide in excitement as he bounded to the cupboard and wriggled in. He stalked around the bag, and held still. He could hear the muffled sound of Television nearly drowning out the sound of John’s relaxed breathing. Very carefully, so not to rouse john, he pushed the bag out of the cupboard and onto the counter. There was a quite WUUUUFFF noise as it hit, causing him to pause and listen for any sign of movement in the other room. Satisfied his activities were undetected, he jumped down and began trying to open the packet with his mouth. He ripped shreds off it off, and was rewarded with a wooosh of white powder flowing over his paws, onto the workbench and onto the floor. 

So now he had is writing equipment, he needed an experiment. He supposed he might is well work on an experiment that would provide data he could use straight away. John’s interference was troublesome, and created unneeded stress. But he would need to know when John’s attention could be attracted at the right moment… therefore an experiment figuring out John’s general reaction times to sound would be incredibly useful.

Struck by inspiration, Sherlock decided to start big. He slunk behind John’s chair, so focused on his task he didn’t notice the trail of flour he left behind him as his tail flicked and swished on the furniture. Sure John was unaware of his movements, he stalked across the living room and nosed his way into his old bedroom. From there he began to set up stimuli that he hoped would both test John’s reaction times, but also make John think about his presence, and his likeness to his human self. He continued stalking through the flat preparing his experiment and planning his route. The objective was so go from loud to quiet and see what john would and would not react to, and how quickly he would react. The experiment in his opinion was passable; It used the architecture of the house to best test where and when John could hear him. Once he was sure of his planned everything to the best of his ability. He slipped back into his bedroom and put his plans into motion.

****

John was exhausted. He had spent much of the afternoon running around looking for that damn cat, and now all he wanted to do was have a cuppa and watch mindless telly for the rest of the evening. As the news finished, John became aware that he hadn’t seen or heard Sherlock for a good half hour. What if he got out again? John felt his panic start to rise. 

Just then he heard something, something that sounded like violin music, coming out of Sherlock’s room. Tense, He rose from his chair. Remembering that his gun was upstairs, john contemplated for a moment getting it, before shaking the thought out of his head. However he did grab an umbrella from by the door, just in case, and held it at the ready as he approached the source of noise. He was so focused on the noise he didn’t notice a black cat covered in flour dart out and scamper away. 

The violin music swelled joyously as John flung open the door to be greeted by an empty room. He swung around, but there was nothing behind him either. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He stepped forward towards the sound, leading him deeper into the room. He almost missed seeing the cassette player, hidden just under the bed, it’s wheels whirling. With a final glance around he pressed the off switch and heard the room fall into eerie silence. 

When John pulled the cassette out, he was unsurprised to find Sherlock’s handwriting on the side, the date from 5 years ago. This wasn’t just any violin music, this was Sherlock playing from the dead. Had someone snuck in here and deliberately starting playing a recording of Sherlock? Who would do this? How did they get in unnoticed? John gripped his umbrella tightly and inspected the cassette player. Why was it covered in flour?

Before he could think too much on this particular clue, there was a crash from upstairs. Startled, john dropped both cassette and cassette player and ran up to his room. Slamming the door open he held his umbrella ready to swing.   
The room was without any sign of intrusion, except for the bookshelf he had next to his bed. That was tipped over. He hurried to his beside and looked for his gun. It was gone. Adrenaline pumping in his system, he checked the whole room he had just finished examining the inside of his wardrobe when he heard the sound of breaking glass in the living room.

He considered for a moment calling Greg Lestrade, but what would he say? Someone was trying to make him think his house was haunted? A cold feeling ran down his spine. What if it was actually Sherlock? Umbrella ready for a fight, he slowly crept down the stairs, to find, as before, no one there. It took a moment to find the source of the sound, one of Sherlock’s glass beakers, dropped from the table. 

But what was that doing in the living room? Someone must have moved it. 

“Who is ever playing this joke… it’s not funny. Show yourself now. I mean it”. He bent down, the biggest piece of beaker catching his eye. There was something on it. Careful not to cut himself he whipped his finger across it; White Powder, like the cassette. He turned around the room, looking carefully. There was white powder everywhere.


	8. In Which a Gift is given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers the culprit of the flat's haunting.

 

 

The blood was pumping so strongly through his body he could hear it in his ears. Gripping the umbrella so tightly his knuckles were white, John entered the kitchen. Just in time to see a greyish coloured cat, push a mug off the bench.

“PURRLOCK”

The cat jumped, arching it’s back and followed the mug, by falling himself off the bench into a pile of flour. _Well one mystery was solved._ What a mess there was, john could only stare at it in speechless horror. Purrlock, now more caked in flour, glared up at him, tail twitching.

“what are you pissed off about? Christ! This mess, you nearly scared the life out of me. How did you…” John stiffened. While some of this mess could be explained by a cat, the cassette couldn’t. A cat  definitly couldn't do that He gripped his umbrella tightly and glanced around. Someone had been in the house. They could be long gone by now, but there was a possibility that they were hiding somewhere waiting.

Tensely john, crept around the flat, checking every hiding spot he could find until the only place left to check was Sherlocks room. It took him a moment to go in, his heart aching just at the smell of it, musty with disuse. Glancing around the room,a thought it crashed through him like a wave.

 

_Maybe I need to let go._

He found Sherlock’s dressing gown hung behind the door and held it for a moment, feeling the texture of a bullet hole in the sleeve with his thumb.

 

 _I miss you._ For a moment he just clutched the dressing gown, lost in feeling the hole Sherlock had left in his life.

With a start he remembered that the reason he was even in this room was to look for an intruder. Dropping the dressing gown, he proceeded to check the room, aware that he was being followed by an inquisitive cat. In the end he had to conclude there was no one. They must be long gone. 

His eyebrows scrunched together. He couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out what game they were playing. This strange prank didn’t make any sense, unless they were just trying to send a message, one that said “we can get you when ever we want, look how easy it is.”.

 

He’d have to get better security.

 

Feeling at last that the threat threat of being assassinated was neither immediate or likely, John collapsed on the bed with a huff. Now there was no threat, he felt nothing but tired.

 

_Why am I doing this to myself?_

Covering his eyes with his arm he let out a shuddering sigh.

 

_You are really gone, aren’t you?_

He felt his eyes begin to heat, as he heard the silence answering his thoughts. He was so  caught up in a swell of emotions, that he hardly felt it when something warm, soft, and furry rubbed against his arm.

 

“I’m still mad at you.” He muttered under his breath. “but can you leave me for a bit. I need a moment”. He felt his voice crack and he tried to keep it in. It only just hit him that he was scared, not of intruders, or ghosts, but of having to close the best chapter of his life, forever. As much as he didn't want to admit it, from now on he would have to live in a world without Sherlock.

It was time to clear out this old room. It was time to let go.

 

Something that could wait until tomorrow. For now he just needed a moment to say goodbye.

He was thankful he warmth at his side didn’t leave.

 

*** 

Sherlock, while exceptionally good at deduction, was not a mind reader. There were a few who believed he was, and until recently he had thought his skill was as close as one could get. But it occurred to him that if someone should have the power to turn you into a cat, there might be others who could have the power to read your inner thoughts. He wanted that power now. He wanted it desperately if it could help him relieve the emotional pain John emitted, lying prone on the bed, face hidden under his arm, his jaw tight and his breath shallow.

 Sherlock knew this was his fault. That was obvious, but if only he knew how he could make it right.  In that moment he was certain he would live his life as cat if it meant John’s pain could be eased. Maybe that was the witches gift all along, to bring him home and allow him to be there for john without John ever having to find out about his deception. He should never have left without telling John the truth. 

 John let out a shaky sigh, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. encouraged by his movement, Sherlock nudged his elbow with his face, trying to gain John’s attention. When John looked over, he did so with a sad smile.

“I’ve been a fool. I have been waiting here, pausing my life for so long, just in case he came back. I couldn’t really believe he was dead, I just couldn’t. even though I saw it with my own eyes and here I am, lying in a shrine to him, not changing a thing incase he comes through those doors. He’s not coming back and I know that, but I didn't, until this moment know how to let go”

  

The irony of his current situation was not lost on Sherlock, but he was overwhelmed by a storm of guilt, grief, and helplessness. It never occurred to him that John’s depth of feelings for him would cause him this much pain. As much as he loved john, what was that worth if he couldn’t be there to love him. It frightened him how much he would rather see John give him up then hold on to a ghost.

He curled next to John resting his head and paws on John’s chest. _I would take your anger over this._ He thought to himself, _But if you never find out how I tricked you, let me be the comfort you need to heal the wounds I caused. I'll stay with you forever._

 

_***_

John woke up with something heavy rested on his chest. The ceiling was different too. Throat dry, and eyes itchy the event’s of yesterday came back to him slowly. He had decided to end an era, and it started with this room. He'd have to call Mycroft. It needed to be cleared or he would never get rid of Sherlock’s ghost.

 

He was beginning to pull himself up when he froze.  He realised the weight on his chest, was not a cat, or a particularly heavy blanket, and it was moving. He glanced down and realised it was an arm.

 

An arm attached to a man.

 

A naked man. Lying next to him, his head curled into Johns shoulder.

 

John leapt from the bed, and adrenaline pumping, he grabbed the umbrella lying on the floor, and brandished it with both hands at the naked intruder.

The man in the bed groaned and began to stir. He stretched out his limbs, in an oddly catlike manner, and rolled over to blink at John.

 

For a second John stopped breathing.

 

Sherlock.

 

The naked man, who looked alarmingly like his deceased flat mate, blinked at him sleepily before yawning and pulling himself up to sit on the bed. His forehead creased as he looked down at his legs, and his lips twisted into a perplexed frown. He stretched out his arms and wiggled his fingers, inspecting them as if they were somehow odd.

 

John stepped backwards, the soft noise of his step caught the man’s attention. The man looked back up at him, eyes glittering with excitement.

 

“John” he sounded very much like sherlock-but-why-Is-he-naked-and-here-,

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock beamed at him.

 

“I don’t understand” John half whispered, dropping the umbrella.

 

“It’s a long story, but the short of it is a witch decided to teach me a lesson”.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this. I am sorry its so rough, but I am thankful to be done. hopefully over the next few weeks I can go back and edit things and get rid of some of the typos.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me this long. I know it was a hell of a weight and I am sorry I haven't updated sooner:
> 
> Edit: yes I'll do an epilogue


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